


Debris

by Kalael



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Depersonalization, Gen, Hallucinations, Night Terrors, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, sleep paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:57:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalael/pseuds/Kalael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He traces lines of frost onto the stone, tiny images of the Guardians forming in patterns. They shine in the dark, reflecting what little light there is. There are only a few torches, just enough to see by, barely enough to make out what's in front of him. It's a disorientation technique.  He's been here long enough that it doesn't affect him anymore.  Footsteps in the distance make him jump and he smashes the patterns with his heel before they can be seen. Shards glitter at his feet, all that remains of a fantasy he'd long since given up on.</p><p>(The sequel to Tremble that I really shouldn't be writing and yet HERE IT IS.....)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shiver](https://archiveofourown.org/works/630022) by [Lindzzz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindzzz/pseuds/Lindzzz). 



> This is going to be pretty different from Shiver and Tremble because Lindz isn't going to be freaking us the fuck out with her (wonderfully) terrifying Pitch thoughts.
> 
> Hope you're ready for some Jack angst.

He wishes that he could change shape, shift and transform into a smaller body or maybe even someone else entirely. Someone stronger, someone wiser. Someone who isn’t this trembling wreck of a boy who hides in what few light places he can find. It’s mostly dark, here, mostly shadow and nightmare.

He isn’t sure how many days have passed or if any time has passed at all. It feels like a thousand years and a single moment simultaneously. At first he had counted the hours by his breaths— _one second, two seconds, exhale, **gasp**_ — but it was difficult when he could hardly control his lungs. He had to abandon it quickly upon reaching this place.

The wind doesn’t come this far down and it has been blocked, besides. He isn’t sure where the entrances and exits are. He isn’t sure if there are any exits. He hasn’t come across any, though confined as he is to certain corridors it’s likely that they are far beyond his reach if they even do exist. He tries not to think about it _(but so often it’s the only thing on his mind, escape freedom safety)._

He doesn’t really fight anymore. He can’t even retreat into his head to avoid it. Those hands are demanding and Pitch doesn’t let him look away, doesn’t let him deny what’s happening. There’s not a single moment that passes where he doesn’t feel like he’s burning, fire crawling along his skin and seeping slowly inward. The shadows are like smoke trails on his body and the heat has dried up all his tears. There’s no use in crying now, anyway.

He hates himself for giving up hates himself for giving in but there is no rescue coming for him. The Guardians wouldn’t come for him now not when he’d messed up so badly. Not when he’d gotten Tooth hurt. Everything is his fault, Pitch is right about that much.

Sometimes his thoughts are too much and he has to curl up alone somewhere, trying to breathe even as his body shakes so hard that his ribs practically rattle in his chest. He is alone he’ll always be alone there will be no one but Pitch here for the rest of his life and he’s going just as crazy as Pitch is he’s lost his mind somewhere in the dark somewhere between the touches and the kisses and the dry heaving sobs.

Sometimes he thinks he can hear the others but he’s certain that it’s Pitch’s fault, certain that the nightmares are playing tricks on him (even though they leave him alone he is alone he is always alone except for Pitch). He mentions it once, only once, and the searing fire that traced his _(hips thighs chest mouth)_ body is enough to burn the questions out of him. Pitch doesn’t like when the Guardians are mentioned. Jack thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s making the voices up on his own.

No no no he isn’t that weak he isn’t creating illusions to get him through the days...nights...the several eternities that he has spent here. This has to be a trick. Pitch is driving him insane.

That’s why when he hears Tooth’s voice he thinks he’s finally cracked. She’s calling his name and she’s getting closer and then he hears the others, too, and when Sandy’s dream sand curls by his feet he recoils because this can’t be real. They aren’t really here. They haven’t come to save him. He’s not worth saving.

He finds his voice and for the first time in who knows how long he is laughing. Laughing at himself, laughing at his weakness and delusions and perhaps the tears haven’t fully dried up because there are cold wet streaks on his cheeks that freeze before shattering on the ground. He doesn’t have any words left. There is nothing to say. He can see the Guardians before him and it hurts too much to watch their illusionary faces stare at his quaking body. He shuts his eyes and hiccups, gasps, tries to regain control of his breathing. One breath, two breaths, three breaths—someone is lifting him and the hands are too big to be Pitch’s but this must be a nightmare, a new game that Pitch has concocted for him.

There is warmth and the gentle rustling of sand, and then there is quiet.

He does not dream.


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes up in a familiar room in a familiar place. He is alone and his staff is beside the bed. He does not touch it, although he longs to feel the grain of the wood beneath his fingers. He hasn’t seen it in...how long has it been?

There is orange sunlight streaking through the window and it hurts his eyes even though it is dim. Sunrise, sunset? He can’t remember what they look like. He wants to look out the window, see the sun and the snow and deep blue drifts in the shadow of the workshop. He stays in bed, does not move. He knows this can’t be real. He isn’t really in North’s workshop, in the room that was given to him. The blankets are thick and worn and the rough stitching is soothing beneath his palms. But it’s not real. None of this is really here. _He_ isn’t really here.

Someone comes in but he doesn’t look up. It’s either Pitch or an illusion. He stays seated, staring at the quilts and tracing the edges of the fabric squares. Whoever it is stays a respectful distance from the bed and Jack tries not to fidget. Pitch would have walked straight over to him, would have run fingers through his hair and over his face and pulled him in close—this person can’t be Pitch. That leaves an illusion and he’s not sure which one is worse.

He and the mystery visitor are silent for an uncomfortably long period of time and he can hear them shift. He refuses to look. If he looks he’ll be giving in _(and he’s already given so much)_. Finally, after what could have been an hour or a few short seconds, they speak.

“Jack...” They speak with North’s voice and it’s so soft and sad that he shudders out a breath, tries to hold himself together. It’s not the first time he’s imagined voices but it’s the first time he’s _(deluded himself)_ been tricked into thinking he was out of Pitch’s lair. He doesn’t respond. No matter what he says, it won’t change a thing.

The illusion with North’s voice walks a little closer and sets something on the table next to the bed. “Eat, please. I will leave you be, if you wish.” He keeps staring at the quilts and his eyes are getting blurry with either tears or the edges of a mirage and the world flickers for a moment, darkness spreading across the blankets for a brief second but it’s all he needs to tense up. The curtains are fluttering and there’s a _breeze._

The wind is curling around him and the air is no longer stagnant and he feels like he’s able to move again. He raises his head and stares with disbelief at the window. The sun is low on the horizon and the sky is orange and blue and pink and it’s more color than he’s seen in...in...a while.

It’s beautiful, and he doesn’t notice when another illusion sidles up next to him.

“Jack, how are you feeling?” It’s Tooth this time and he can’t help but jump and scramble away, pressing himself against the headboard with wide eyes and a terrified grimace. She’s here and whole and uninjured and _alive_ and that’s such a relief, such a blessing that he almost reaches out to her but he clenches his fists in the sheets instead. She’s not real. This isn’t real. He’s only going to hurt himself by opening up to this machination.

She looks so sad and confused that he has to turn away. He can’t fall for it. He can’t let himself be taken in by these false dreams.

She leaves along with North. He ignores the tray of food on the table, wraps himself in a quilt and walks to the window, where he watches the sun set. All good things come to an end. All dreams fade. All days become night, and he is used to the dark _(made for it left for it consumed by it)._

He sits at the windowsill all through the night and watches tendrils of dream sand streak the sky, wondering when the shadows will swallow him once more.

\--

_He traces lines of frost onto the stone, tiny images of the Guardians forming in patterns. They shine in the dark, reflecting what little light there is. There are only a few torches, just enough to see by, barely enough to make out what's in front of him. It's a disorientation technique._

_He's been here long enough that it doesn't affect him anymore._

_Footsteps in the distance make him jump and he smashes the patterns with his heel before they can be seen. Shards glitter at his feet, all that remains of a fantasy he'd long since given up on._

 

\--

The sun rises and with it comes North and Tooth. They enter quietly and neither of them speak, they just leave a tray of food and sit silently on the bed. He still hasn’t touched his staff, still hasn’t moved from the windowsill. The window is wide open and the wind hasn’t left him alone since they reunited, but he hasn’t tried to fly. There’s nowhere to go. If he tries to leave he’ll only be pulled from the illusion, and though the mirage is painful, at least there are no hands on him here.

Tooth talks. She talks about how sorry she is that she didn’t help him, how awful she felt when she woke up and realized it was too late. She talks about Baby Tooth and Jamie and how they missed him in his absence and how the Guardians themselves were distraught. He listens but doesn’t say a word in response. Sometimes North will interject with some silly comment that would have made him smile if this were real. Instead he just feels...numb, and a little lonely. He misses the Guardians. He misses what they used to have _(what he ruined what he destroyed)._

“I’m sorry.” Tooth says, and he looks over at her with a bemused frown.

“What for? It’s all my fault anyway.” The stunned expressions on _(fake fake fake)_ North and Tooth’s faces make him uncomfortable, a slow twisting guilt in the pit of his stomach, and he quietly asks them for privacy. When they leave he catches a glimpse of a shadow in the doorway, six feet tall with big ears, and then the door shuts and he is alone.

This time he touches the food, and although he can’t bring himself to eat or drink he holds onto the mug of chilled hot cocoa until it turns into ice.

He wonders why this illusion is so elaborate, when the others were always so quick to end.


	3. Chapter 3

Days pass by in the same manner as the first two. He doesn’t leave the room and he rarely eats. He had given in on the third day and touched the staff, running his fingers down the familiar marked wood before pulling away as though it burned. Don’t get attached, he keeps telling himself, none of this real and it will all be torn away from you eventually. Everything always is.

Tooth and North are accompanied by Sandy and Bunnymund, though the latter two don’t speak. Bunny always has this sad, withdrawn expression and Sandy tries too hard to make him smile with images in dream sand. He had tried to indulge them, but smiling feels like splitting wood _(cracking staffs)_ and the splinters are sharp pains in his jaw. There’s invisible pressure there like someone is forcing the grin and—

_Let me see that smile of yours_

—a soft voice and fingers pressed to his cheeks and there used to be a _fun_ memory like this, but it’s been ruined by Pitch and he keeps his teeth behind closed lips now. Tooth must be disapointed but it’s a memory of her that was soiled and he can’t quite bring himself to make it up to her. He could never apologize to her for what he’d done, for what he’d caused. He isn’t worth that much. She’s too good _(too good for him)_.

They aren’t real but they act like they are and it hurts _it hurts it **hurts**_. It’s a bittersweet aching because this is the best dream he’s ever had, dead or alive, whether or not he’s really sleeping or if Pitch is waiting just past the veil of delusion.

He’s cracked and broken and there are hairline fractures from the tips of his fingers to his collarbones, to his knees and to his heels and they are pulling him apart at the seams.

He doesn’t really mind.

\--

It’s a mistake when the dreams catch sight of the marks. He had forgotten about them, gotten clumsy with hiding them, and it’s his carelessness that gains him unwanted attention.

He had never particularly minded the pain. Many of the bruises he has are of his own making, from attempts to make Pitch angry and from the odd failed escape. The pain shows him that he hasn’t completely given in yet, that he’s not wrecked, that he’s still salvageable.

_(He is leftover debris from the wreckage of a boy and he will never be saved)_

He’d spilled cocoa on his sweatshirt and the liquid starts to freeze to his skin, so he pulls off his shirt to prevent what he knows would be an uncomfortable task later on. The others are outside the door and they knock. They don't wait because he never sends them away and he hadn’t thought, hadn’t _realized_ , and Tooth’s gasp as they enter reminds him that there are some things that should never be seen _(some things that shouldn’t be believed in some things that should stay out of sight for three hundred years or more)_.

He’d grown used to them and at first he’s confused— _there’s nothing new here aren’t the illusions supposed to know these things?_ —but then he’s ashamed and his face grows cold with horror. He’d accepted the marks _(the bruises the bites the ‘affectionate’ brands)_ over time and every new little wound had just been a reminder that he was still alive.

_(He’s grown to resent that sometimes)_

He has always been slow to heal and the marks, though faded, are still contrasted starkly against his skin. He wraps his arms around himself and he is shaking _(trembling shivering frightened)_ as he tries to speak.

"Please leave." He manages a broken plea and the illusions are quick to comply, the door shutting with a soft click behind them.

He lowers his arms, gently wraps one hand around an aching bruised wrist, and reminds himself that he's still here.

\-- __

_“I hate you.” He says, rage seeping in but it’s a tiny rebellion that fizzles like dying embers._

_“No, you don’t.” Quietly indulgent, the hands don’t even flinch from where they are stroking his hair._

_He doesn't have the will to respond._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter oversteps 'noncon references' straight into actual noncon, so be warned.

There are flashbacks. Of course there are, there have always been flashbacks _(happy memories, sad memories, though they are all overrun by the dark burning no **nonono **)****_. Not a single moment passes where he isn't reminded of something that had happened in the past. His skin always feels as though it’s been rubbed raw and even the texture of the quilts on the bed hurts from time to time.

He doesn’t mind the pain, he really doesn’t. It’s the memories that taunt him. North pats his back one day and he goes careening out of his chair, shuddering by the windowsill until everyone leaves. 

It’d be pathetic if it weren’t so terrifying. These gentle touches, gentle hands, they all feel like they have an ulterior motive (they always do always have always will).

_Hands through his hair over his eyes over his mouth_

_Hands on his shoulders his waist his hips_

He slams his own hands in a drawer and the burst of pain is almost worth it

_WHY ISN’T HE WAKING UP_

They don’t go away, the memories, they linger and slide through his vision until the images overlay and he doesn’t know where he is anymore

the world

tilts

_and he is in the dark again. There are hands (there are always hands) running through his hair and he is pressed against Pitch’s chest and he knows how to shift his shoulders to sit the most comfortably—_

_It isn’t comfortable it’s never comfortable and he jerks up in Pitch’s grasp, the top of his head hitting Pitch’s chin and he whines._

_Pitch hushes him and the arm that’s holding him down pulls him closer (he can’t get any closer it’s physically impossible) and the fingers in his hair never stop stroking. There are noises and it takes a moment before he realizes that it’s him, he’s whimpering and his voice is on the verge of cracking and Pitch just rocks him slowly and whispers_

_hush, hush_

_He curls up and the hand moves from his hair to his spine and—_

He feels hands on his own and there are bandages being wound around his fingers but he can hardly feel them, can barely tell that his fingers are bleeding through the cloth. These hands are small and warm and delicate and he knows these hands

fingers in his mouth

“No no nono don’t nonono,” he pulls back, hits a wall and slides to the floor, his eyes are unfocused and he still can’t tell where he is

hush, _hush_

_“Don’t bite.” Pitch scolds and he just snaps his jaw again, fingers flexing around air as he wishes for his staff. There is frost spreading across the ground from where his feet are touching the stone but it’s brittle without his staff to channel it it’s weak he’s weak. He just wants to be steady wants to hold firm but the shadows creep around his ankles and he just yells_

_“No!”_

_But that word doesn’t mean anything here, and he can scream all he likes but he won’t win._

_“No?” Pitch tilts his head as though he doesn’t understand but of course he does it’s such a simple fucking word and it_

_doesn’t_

_mean_

_a_

_thing_

“No get away!” He screams, and there are flashes of color against the darkness and for a moment he feels fur against his flailing hands. He grips it tight, pulls, not sure if it’s real or not but he hears a surprised yelp and he pulls and pulls and pulls until there are wet tufts in his hands and there is red so much red so much

blood

_and his hands are bleeding from scrambling at the cage but the iron holds firm he can’t get through. He’s trapped he was always trapped but now he’s in this small place and he hates being confined he needs the sky he needs the wind. But instead he’s here in this cage and the keys are in Pitch’s hand and he can feel his heartbeat against his ribs as his lungs constrict_

_it’s getting hard to breathe he can’t breathe it’s too small here he can’t stay here it’s too small_

_“Let me out!” He cries and it’s not begging, it isn’t, but Pitch just bares his teeth in a snarl._

_“If I can’t trust you to be good while I’m away, what makes you think that you deserve to be let out?” He says and that’s wrong he can’t be kept in a cage that’s wrong wrong wrong. “Stupid, stupid boy. You’ve brought this on yourself, I can’t trust you not to try to run away again so when I’m not here,” he taps the bars of the cage and the keys are so close but he pulls away too quickly, “you’ll have to stay here. At home.”_

_“No no this isn’t home I don’t want to be here let me go!” His voice cracks and Pitch gives him a look that’s partly pity, partly anger, and he pockets the keys._

_“You **are** home.” Pitch snaps. “And until you realize that, you’ll have to stay there. It’s your own fault, Jack, for trying to leave. If you had asked nicely I might have taken you with me tonight. You only had to ask, Jack.”_

_If only he’d asked if only if only._

_“Please.” The tears fall without permission and he reaches out a blood smeared hand. Desperate, begging. “Please, let me out. I’ll be good.” Pitch’s expression softens for just a moment, but just as quickly as it came it’s gone._

_“This is for your own good.”_

_And then he is alone in the cage and it’s small and dark and he screams wordlessly until his lack of breathe cuts him off, and the claustrophobic space has him hyperventilating but there is no one there to let him out—_

He can feel the wind on his face, comforting, and his hands are pried open and the fur and blood are wiped away. He’s just trying to breathe now, just trying to ground himself, but his body isn’t following his directions.

“Jack, Jack, please, talk to us Jack, you’re okay Jack, it’s okay—”

He locks eyes with the illusion of Tooth and her concerned face is overwritten by Pitch’s smile and he screams (he was already screaming he never stopped screaming)

“It’s okay, it’s _okay Jack—_

_It’s okay Jack just feel it it’s okay,” hands sliding up his chest and he’s immobile again, frozen again (under the water again) and he can feel Pitch’s breath against his ear, “it’s alright don’t fight this it’s okay to feel it Jack don’t fight me.”_

_It’s like everything is secondhand he’s not in his body but he can still feel everything and he slaps a hand over his mouth to bite back the moan. Pitch grabs his wrist and pulls his hand aside and he bites his own tongue trying to stay quiet._

_“I want to hear you Jack don’t be ashamed don’t hold back it’s okay,”_

_It’s not okay, it’s not, he doesn’t want this to feel good doesn’t want the pleasure being forced on him and he slams his head back into Pitch’s shoulder, praying the bones will make it hurt instead._

_If it hurts it won’t feel good and then he won’t have to react._

_But the hand on his chest presses him back, closer to Pitch, and he stretches out his feet trying to reach the floor, trying to touch cool stone but instead he just slides on Pitch’s lap and thrashes away. Pitch makes a soft, exasperated sound and settles a hand on his hip (it’s still scary how much of him fits in that hand how much of him is swallowed by how much bigger Pitch is than him) to pull him firmly back into his hold._

_The other hand never stops moving never stops stroking his skin and it burns across his chest and neck before travelling down his stomach. He tries to arch away but there is nowhere to go to because all he can feel is Pitch. His hands fly out uselessly, trying to grab something, trying to find something to hold onto, but in the end all he can find is more of Pitch and he grips the sleeves of Pitch’s robe. It doesn’t deter Pitch at all, only seems to spur him on, and he chokes on a scream when he feels burning fingers wrapping around him._

_White hot pain in his chest and his hips snap forward despite the bile rising in the back of his throat. Every movement is agony and he turns his head to the side. His nose is pressed to Pitch’s neck and he can feel the rapid pulse there, can feel the ragged breaths._

_He has the urge to bite down on that pulse **rip his throat out** but that thought terrifies him and he just gnashes his teeth and moans through closed lips._

_“That’s a good boy,” Pitch murmurs and he hates him he hates him so much (but he still bucks into that hand still has to swallow the noises), “you’re beautiful like this, Jack, wrapped up like this, open like this,” he doesn’t want to hear this but even if he covered his ears he’d still feel the vibrations through his back, “you sound exquisite let me hear more,” the hand on his hip moves up to his neck and it just rests there, pressing lightly, and he tries to hold perfectly still but he’s breathing so hard that he can’t help but feel those fingers on adam’s apple._

_“Don’t.” It’s the first and only word he manages to get out but Pitch doesn’t acknowledge it except for the brief pressure as a heavy palm presses against his throat._

_He can still breathe he can breathe (no he can’t) he sucks in the air and even after Pitch’s hand goes away he can still feel the phantom pressure lingering there, choking him. He tries to speak tries to say ‘stop’ but he can hardly take in enough air let alone release it. It’s too warm he’s melting the hands are still moving his hips are moving his hands are clutching Pitch’s arms so tightly that they might leave bruises. He knows he’s crying because he can feel the tears dampening Pitch’s shoulder as he howls brokenly against his neck._

_And then he can’t feel_ a n y t h i n g any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lin sat in on this chapter and gave me help and moral support sdfghj
> 
> Next chapter probably won't be up until after this school semester ends in a few weeks.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s as though he’s broken a fever. Everything still burns, still hurts. But it’s less than before and he’s grateful for the reprieve even though he knows it won’t last. It’s dark and quiet. Night, then? No, it’s not exactly night. It’s just...dark.

He jolts and sits up, heart pounding as his eyes dart around the room. He can’t see anything at all but a shift of black on black catches his attention and slowly something takes shape.

Pitch is sitting at the edge of the bed. He realizes the sheets have changed to black, though they still feel like worn quilts. He grips them tightly in his fists and stares at Pitch, who is looking at him with that familiar sad expression that makes his gut twist. He’d always hated that face, but now it’s almost a comfort. He’s still here, he’s still real. Pitch isn’t going away like the illusions always do.

"You're being pathetic, Jack." Pitch says softly, as though he’s trying to be reassuring. It’s ridiculous and he shakes his head because he doesn’t understand. What is Pitch playing at this time? What’s the game?

“I’m not.” He denies, his eyes lowering. He can never keep eye contact for long. Pitch laughs and reaches out, but the laughter cuts off when a blanket is thrown up in defense.

“Don’t be like that.” It’s a threat, a command, one he doesn’t want to follow. But he shudders out a breath and drops the blanket, allowing a heavy hand to cup the side of his face. “That’s a good boy. You’ve worried me, you know. You’ve slept for so long...”

“Slept.” He echoes. Pitch nods and shifts closer so that both hands are on his face. They’re scorching hot to the point of being painful but he doesn’t pull away. He can’t. This is real. He has to remind himself that this is the reality.

“Yes. I can only imagine the nightmares you must have been having. Even I couldn’t wake you up.”

“Nightmares?” He breathes. It hadn’t been a nightmare, not really. Just...a dream. He shuts his eyes, tries to quell the sudden tears that come for no reason. With his eyes closed he can hear the wind.

“Poor Jack...” Pitch croons. “Were you frightened?” The hands aren’t on his face anymore and he keeps his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Had he been scared?

Yes. He had been. He’d been afraid that the illusions were just that. He’d been afraid that at any moment he would wake up in the lair, that he’d been abandoned, that the Guardians finally gave up. Now that he’s here, and Pitch is right in front of him...he knows there’s not much left of himself that isn’t cracked, but those parts that remain are beginning to chip away.

He grips his hair and pulls, yanking until he sees white stars behind his eyelids and he hisses through his teeth because the pain is grounding, it keeps him focused. Sanity is debatable. But when he hurts he knows he’s awake and—

there are bandages wound around his fingers.

He stares at them like they’re malignant tumors. These shouldn’t be here. He remembers slamming his fingers in the drawers and he remembers the blood, but they shouldn’t be here because _he’s awake right now._

Dark fingers fold over his and gently hide the bandages from view. He realizes that he’s shaking and when Pitch pulls him in close he buries his face into the crook of Pitch’s neck and tries to pull himself together. He’s falling apart he knows he is, he can see the pieces of himself beginning to shatter and he doesn’t want to be broken.

“Darling boy,” Pitch murmurs against his hair, “you’re positively quaking with fear.”

“Make it go away.” He isn’t begging, he doesn’t beg, but he doesn’t want to feel torn anymore. At least with Pitch he knows where he stands.

When it comes down to it, Pitch is the one solid thing he has to hang onto and he is too frightened to let that go. So when Pitch runs his fingers through his hair he doesn’t tense, and when Pitch gently pulls his head back so they are eye to eye he doesn’t look away. These are familiar things and he isn’t safe here but it’s better than the sick feeling in his heart whenever he sees the illusions of the Guardians.

“I can’t take away your fears.” Pitch doesn’t even try to sound remorseful. “The Guardians won’t help you. But I’m here, Jack. I’m always here.” Pitch’s breath is cold, it’s never cold but he just chalks it up to his own temperature.

There are thin lips against his and he doesn’t turn away, even though there’s something strangely insubstantial about the contact. He doesn’t push into the kiss either, and Pitch doesn’t deepen it. It’s simple contact, there’s nothing pleasurable about it. He just knows that it’s there.

He needs proof because he can’t rely on himself anymore.

He knows he’s real because Pitch is real and he’s almost desperate to grab those hands between his own, because that’s the only way he can make sure that he’s still here. But instead he twists his fingers into the blankets and tries to ignore the bandages rubbing against his skin. Pitch doesn’t try to take things further and he’s more than okay with that because even just kissing sends a shockwave of self-hatred through him. But this is better than dreaming.

He can’t remember the last time he was angry. Instead of cold fury he feels....complacent. Not exactly content, but he’s not anxious and that is such a difference from the beginning that he almost claws right through the blankets. He doesn’t want to be okay with this. Pitch makes it feel normal.

The mouth on his is gone and cold wind whispers through his lips, stealing his breath. He refuses to acknowledge the pathetic sound that rends itself from his throat.

“I’m always going to be here, Jack. You just have to come find me.”

He opens his eyes and finds himself in his room in North’s workshop.

Back to the dream, then.


	6. Chapter 6

He hears Pitch's voice from time to time, whispering in the dark corners of the room whenever he is alone. But he doesn’t see him and it’s not the relief that it should be. He misses the things that had become normal. It wasn’t stability but it was familiar and being uprooted like he is now is...hard.

He wraps his arms around himself and stares out the window, watching the sun rise and fall over the distant mountains. He keeps track of the days only because he can now. Two weeks. Two weeks of this confusing new routine. He raises a hand and presses his palm flat against the window. It's cold and damp against his skin. His hand barely looks like it's attached to him. Condensation freezes under his touch and it’s so hard to believe that he’s doing it, that he’s making frost and it’s glittering in the sunlight.

He crushes the beads of ice beneath his fingertips.

Two weeks.

He doesn’t think this is a dream anymore.

 

\--

 

He sees himself for the first time in

a while

his reflection is less than inspiring.

He hadn’t asked for a mirror or anything like that, but he really wanted to take a shower (wash away the grime the dirt the blood) and North had happily shown him where the bathroom was.

He nearly had a panic attack the second he was out of the room he’d confined himself to. The workshop was just as he remembered it being, teeming with life and color and noise. It was too much, overloading his senses after days and days of dark silence. He clapped his hands over his ears and shut his eyes and the wind howls as it barreled through the corridor into the main shop. He felt big hands on his shoulders, pushing him gently until the noise was gone. When he opened his eyes he was standing outside the open door of a large bathroom. 

So there he is, standing naked in front of the mirror and trying to keep his breathing even. He’s thinner than usual, ribs protruding slightly, hip bones stretching the skin. The bags under his eyes are dark and though there are only faint marks left from the once stark bruises, there is a scar on his left shoulder that might never heal. He raises a hand to touch it but his fingers hover over the skin as though the scar might grow teeth and bite him.

It’s a circular mark, made of jagged points from Pitch’s teeth. He’d only bitten a few times, no more than five, but each time had been deep enough to bleed and scab over. It was pure luck that Pitch had bitten the exact spot almost perfectly over and over again, because each time he’d—

no no no nonono don’t think about it don’t talk about it don’t no no n o

He hears something shatter and his fist is aching and he can’t figure out why until he hears North pounding on the door. The mirror is shattered on the floor, glittering shards that reflect a hundred images of his stunned face.

“I’m fine.” He calls out, although his voice is shaking. The pounding on the door fades out and he’s left staring at the mess that he’s made. He should clean it up. Instead he climbs into the shower, turns the water on, and sinks to the floor.

He doesn’t know how long he sits under the spray of water for. He stops keeping track after the water goes from lukewarm to scalding hot. It’s painful to the point of burning and he knows he’ll be bright red for hours but he doesn’t feel clean. He can't see the remaining filth that's covering him but he knows it's there, under his skin and crawling through his veins. He can't wash the darkness out.

The water is freezing when he finally stumbles out of the shower and wraps himself in a towel. The fibers are soft but they scratch his over sensitive skin and only then is he aware of how much damage the hot water has done. If he knew what sunburn feels like, he figures that this is probably it. He pulls the towel over his head and sits at the edge of the bathtub next to the shower. The bathroom is huge and the appliances are massive. He feels dwarfed in comparison.

He'd never cared about being small before. He wishes that he were big like North. Then maybe—

Pitch's face stares at him from the shattered mirror on the floor. He blinks and the image is gone, but he is left shaken.

He doesn't know if he imagined it or not. But the bathroom is empty except for himself and it's quiet except for his heartbeat in his ears. North knocks again.

He wonders when he stopped considering the Guardians to be illusions.

 

\--

 

Where there are already fractures it does not take much pressure to deepen them into fissions so wide that an ocean could fill them. He had seen them in the mirror, the cracks in himself. They were filled with dark and shadow and ash.

He sleeps sometimes and dreams of his sister. Bittersweet but happy memories brought by golden sand that crusts at his eyes so he has to brush it away when he wakes up.

The first Guardian that he seeks out on his own is Sandy. They’ve all been hanging around the workshop; he hears their voices outside the room even when they aren’t visiting him. The workshop is busy and loud but the corridors near his room have far less traffic now. North had promised to keep things as calm as possible for him. He wonders if he’ll be able to handle the noise again one day. The idea of even going outside is terrifying.

Sandy is in one of the unoccupied rooms with a tray of eggnog, looking more tired than usual as he directs sand from the window. North had mentioned that Sandy and Bunnymund spend the majority of their time the workshop, with Tooth coming as frequently as she can. He can’t help but be a little glad for that. He’s not quite ready to face her, of all people. He’s not sure that he ever will be. 

The room is lit mostly by golden light and Sandy smiles at him as he enters, leaving the door partially open behind him. He hates closed doors, hates having anything obstruct his way out. If Sandy notices anything, he doesn’t show it. A few sand creatures fly around him, the closest thing to a hug that he can stand. Even the texture of sand on his skin makes him shudder, remembering—

This isn’t the time for that. He steps away from the door, forcing himself not to run.

“Hi.” He says. Sandy gives him an encouraging wave and he goes to join the Sandman by the tray of eggnog. “So..." He trails off, uncertain of what to say. Sandy flashes a few reassuring shapes above his head, still smiling brightly.

"You've been giving me good dreams, right? When I fall asleep. Dreams about my sister." Sandy nods and forms the shape of a little girl, who spins and admires the flare of her golden dress. She dissipates in a shower of golden sand, leaving him with an ache that feels almost pleasant.

“When I dream about her, I feel...real. Because there’s no way she couldn’t have existed, right? I couldn’t have created something that beautiful in my head.” Sandy nods at him again and throws a smiley face into the air. “She’s the best thing that happened to me. I remember that much. She’s my light. _Was_ my light.” He sits down in one of the chair and stares at his hands, wondering when they began to feel so disconnected from the rest of himself. He traces the blue veins with his eyes and remembers a time when his sister had lined them with bits of charcoal, leaving them both smeared in black and laughing. He can see the darkness now, creeping under his skin rather than over it, and he turns his palms over so that he doesn’t have to look at it.

“I don’t know where the light has gone. I don’t think I even have any left.” Sandy frowns, but of course he has no words to offer. He doesn’t mind the silence. It’s better than empty condolences. Instead, he watches as Sandy creates more shapes. These ones are easy to understand: a bed, the form of his sister, and a question mark.

_Do you want to dream?_

“Please.” He says, and watches as the sand form of his sister walks towards him on the air. She presses her hand to his heart and he stares into her mostly featureless face until it blurs into freckles and shrieking laughter.

He’d been too scared to sleep before. Now he’s more afraid of waking up.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but very important c:

It had been a long, long time since he’d given thought to the days before the Guardians (the days before Jamie, the days before _Pitch_ ). He thinks of it now with mixed emotions. Three hundred years are hard to write off of course, but there had been other issues on his mind. Now his sister is literally running through his head every time he falls asleep and he finds himself dwelling on the past more than ever. Granted that could have something to do with his new sleeping habits, where he will doze off for hours every day rather than every few months.

He isn't used to changing his routine. He'd always existed on the security that his personal schedule had allowed him. That schedule may have been very lax and relied mainly on the weather patterns, but ever since last Easter (nearly a year ago now, and Bunnymund's voice has grown less common in the halls) he has been thrown off and left floundering. He misses stability.

Living in the workshop is not stable. It’s like watching the world from underwater, where it’s muffled and warped beneath the surface. Sometimes he surges forward, out of the dank pool of delusion he’s found himself in and he breathes in a moment of lucidity. These moments are simultaneously beautiful and painful, because for a short while he is _Jack_ and he is real and he is okay.

And then he is plunged beneath the waves again, dragged down by the undertow and left drowning (he is always drowning).

Pitch yells from the shadows now. It's getting harder and harder to understand what he's saying but the noise is too much to bear in the late hours of the night. He finds himself creeping through the halls to find Sandy, who will either give him good dreams or good company. He isn’t picky, these days. The others can’t hear Pitch but he is much quieter when they are around. He begins to wonder if Pitch is there at all, but he’s too afraid to ask and disrupt the maybe-not-a-dream. He’s pretty sure this is all real, but there is a lingering paranoia that keeps him from questioning it out loud.

It’s a bit like the video games he’s seen teenagers play, where the characters say ‘computer, end session’ aloud and the world will collapse around them to reveal a different reality. He doesn’t want to find that this isn’t real. He hears Pitch scream from under the bed and he flies out of the room at breakneck speed. He can never linger for long in the guestroom North gave him. He begins to feel hands if he tries to wait it out.

There are a few elves running down the hall with a string of broken fairy lights but otherwise it’s empty. There are muffled sounds, hammers on wood and growling yetis, all too distant to really bother him the way it used to. He walks instead of flying, respecting North’s space as well as forcing himself to get used to the feel hardwood beneath his feet. He can’t fly forever. He can’t hide forever. He walks without a real destination in mind and gradually the noises from the workshop get louder, making him falter for a moment before pressing on.

He peers over the railing to see the yetis hard at work on something he hasn’t seen before, likely a prototype of one of North’s inventions. He can’t tell what it is but it looks like it’s going to be huge. He feels his mouth twitch and he presses his fingers to the corners of his lips, tracing the smile that had formed all by itself.

It’s progress, no matter how small it may seem.

There are snatches of conversation coming from the globe room and he hesitates before using the wind to fly up above the door, hovering there to listen without being caught. Bunnymund and North are arguing, as usual, though he can barely make out more than the words ‘easter’ and ‘help’. North storms out, the doors banging on the walls before swinging shut. He slips into the room just before the doors close and he hides in the rafters to avoid being pulled into whatever foul mood is left from the argument. 

Bunnymund is furiously painting an egg with a pile of them filling a basket on the table next to him, though it’s not long before Bunnymund begins pacing the length of the room. A quick glance at the globe reminds him that Bunnymund has his work cut out for him this year. Grimacing at the memory of the previous Easter, he swings down from the rafters and lands softly on the floor by the basket of eggs. Although he had been almost silent, Bunnymund whirls around with a paintbrush held up like a boomerang. They both flinch at the sight of one another and Bunnymund slowly lowers his arm, his expression becoming concerned. Despite all the bad blood between them, it’s funny how he is always so quick to show worry.

“Jack. What’re you doing here?” Bunnymund asks, trying his hardest to sound nonchalant and failing miserably. It's...reassuring, to know how much Bunnymund actually cares. He sees the bald patches on Bunnymund's forearms and is reminded that things are even more awkward between them now.

“Just walking.” He says, shrugging one shoulder. He looks at the basket of eggs and then to the paintbrush in Bunnymund’s paw. “Can...can I help?”

“Help?” Bunnymund sounds surprised as he looks between the basket of eggs and the small pale hand that hovers above them.

“You know. Paint eggs. Easter is coming soon, right? I want to help you.” He shifts uncomfortably and thinks that maybe this is a bad idea, maybe he had been misreading Bunnymund all along. For a moment he's convinced that Bunnymund will mention how well that went last year, but the pooka doesn’t say a word. He simply digs into one of the pouches on his bandolier and pulls out another paintbrush.

“Paints are on the table, mate. Knock yourself out.” He smiles at the permission and Bunnymund's looks almost bashful before he busies himself with his work.

Despite what the others may believe, he knows how to paint. He’d been painting autumn leaves for years, in a way, though it had never been literal until he’d stolen some paints from an artist’s shed one autumn afternoon. Bunnymund doesn’t do much more than offer a few pointers and color suggestions, leaving the rest entirely up to the winter spirit.

They work in companionable silence and its easy to get lost in the sounds of mixing paint and soft breathing. It's relaxing and he can't really remember the last time his shoulders weren't tense. Pitch is completely silent. He has _hope._

When Bunnymund looks up to say something, he sees Jack smiling back at him.

\--

North catches him on Easter day and grins down at him in a proud, fatherly manner that makes his heart ache.

“Bunny says you are being helpful to him.” He booms, and with a flourish he produces a painted egg seemingly out of nowhere. “He hid this in my office. In ice sculptures, of course. I nearly did not see it!” It's one of the first ones he'd painted, a practice egg that he'd given a winter theme just for fun, and he's struck with a feeling between embarrassment and joy at the way North holds it so gingerly.

"I'm glad you like it." He say softly. North smiles at him and he can tell that the big man is trying not to give into the urge to hug him tight. One day he'll be able to accept that hug without flinching away.

“Of course I do, Jack.” The _’We missed you’_ goes unspoken but he can see it in North’s expression, in the way his big eyes are focused on his face as though he might disappear at any moment.

“Thank you.” He says, out of the blue, but North’s smile takes a bittersweet edge and he knows that he understands what the gratitude is for. He feels the memories lapping at the back of his mind, waiting to drag him underwater and keep him breathless and terrified.

But he has the others to pull him to shore now. He just has to learn how to take their hands.


	8. Chapter 8

Pitch no longer makes any noise.

Jack resurfaces more frequently, not as boisterous as before but certainly more lifelike than the days where he is not quite sure where he exists.

He tries to get the courage to go outside, but the most he can manage is a few queasy moments perched on the windowsill as he stares out at the jagged white peaks in the distance. The wind pushes gently, urging him to take flight. He can’t stop his heart from beating so hard that it hurts. The world outside is much bigger than the workshop, and if he thinks about the shadows in the corners of the room or the spaces beneath the tables and beds he will begin to panic. If he goes outside, he will be drowned in the darkness at the feet of mountains and between the boughs of trees. He’s not ready to make that step yet.

So instead he wanders the halls of the workshop, content to busy himself with finding every single room in North’s workshop. It’s easy to ignore the elves that scamper from corridor to corridor, but it’s more difficult to dodge the yetis as he begins to explore the lower levels. They’re friendly enough, now that he’s a Guardian, but sometimes he’ll run into a yeti in a particularly bad mood and they’ll try to swat him out of the air like some sort of fly.

He’d only been hit once and it hadn’t really hurt, it was more of a shock than anything. Gentle touches are the sort that bruise deepest and the unexpected pats on the back are more painful than some yeti cuffing him across the head. North had chewed that yeti out pretty soundly, though. He hadn’t bothered explaining to North that it hadn’t hurt him, because he felt like that would just upset the big man. He’s already caused enough trouble for the others.

There’s another reason for his wandering, one that the others had probably picked up on pretty quickly. He’s been avoiding Tooth for as long as he can, which is no small feat considering how often she patrols the damn halls after North had told her he is up and wandering the workshop. It’s only a matter of time before they bump into each other.

He wasn’t prepared for it when he first caught a glimpse of her, and he isn’t prepared for it now that she’s turning the corner to look directly at him. Their eyes meet and the breath is punched out of him in the worst way.

“Jack!” She calls out, surprised. He jerks away and Tooth freezes mid air, as though his fear of her has physically struck her.

“I...” He can’t take in enough air to finish the sentence. He’s immobile, too shocked to move away, and it doesn’t take long for Tooth to get the picture. She turns away quickly, her hands covering her face for either his benefit or her own, he doesn’t know.

The half-healed scar partially hidden beneath regrowing plumage has him falling to his knees, retching up the cookies he’d eaten that morning. He catches bright movement before he squeezes his eyes shut and shame bursts through him at the thought of Tooth seeing him like this, weak and vulnerable, unable to stop heaving even though his stomach has emptied itself.

He hates what this feels like. Helpless, broken, ashamed. Unbearable _rage_ that has him reeling, falling back and opening unseeing eyes to see find darkness before him.

_“I’m here for Tooth.” He says, voice cold and crackling because Pitch is treading on thin ice. “I’m here because I want answers.” He can’t hold himself back anymore he can’t keep the rage inside **(and he’s losing control of this, too, he’s losing control of the one thing he has going for him)**._

He hadn’t seen Tooth after Pitch had attack her, he had just run directly into confrontation (into destruction). The memory of the scar burns a hot red line across the inside of his eyelids. Pitch had nearly taken a wing off, he’d gone across her back in a sharp diagonal. He’d nearly _killed_ her.

And that was his fault. Jack’s fault.

The two months he’d spent in Pitch’s lair don’t feel like punishment enough for his mistakes.

(Selfishly he wishes for the ignorance of dreams and the golden smile of his sand-born sister)

After days of silence Pitch speakd up. He whispers in his ears even after he claps his hands over them and for the first time he realizes that this entire time, Pitch has just been in his head. Pitch was never there, taunting him in the dark and kissing his forehead and running his hands down his sides.

_“They couldn’t tell, could they? Your little guardian friends. They couldn’t tell how afraid you were even though you were right there.”_

But Tooth had known. It had taken a while but she had figured it out, and when she had she didn’t leave his side willingly.

_“You know we’ll always be here for you. **I’ll** always be here.” It’s a quiet reassurance but he can feel her pulse through her palm, steady and calm against his own frantic heartbeat._

_He’s afraid. He’s absolutely terrified._

_But he isn’t alone anymore._

He’s not alone. Pitch was wrong about that much. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’d screwed up, he’d gotten Tooth hurt, and he doesn’t deserve that unwavering affection any longer. He stands up, steadying himself against a wall as his vision blurs. Tooth is a smear of pigment and he’s grateful that he can’t make out her face. He can’t say anything to her, can’t even apologize.

He steps into the air and the wind howls through some open window, snatching him up and cradling him as it pulls him towards his room. He stumbles through the doorway and plans on crawling into bed but the sun is casting long shadows that look like claws reaching for his ankles. Rationally, he knows that they can’t hurt him. Not with Pitch gone (locked up, North had said, and never getting out). Rationality means nothing in the face of fear and he’s positive that Pitch can feel his terror from whatever underground prison he’s trapped in.

As he backs out of the room on shaky legs, he wonders if he’s ever going to get better.

 

\--

 

He doesn’t run into Tooth for a few days after that. He feels bad that he left so suddenly after seeing her but catching sight of the scar and then choking through the subsequent panic attack had put him out of commission for the rest of that day and part of the following. Sandy provides silent comfort while they sit together in a room near the kitchen, nibbling on gingersnaps and watching the elves run back and forth in the doorway. Sandy offers dreamsand again, running it delicately over his fingers with a questioning look.

"Not this time, little man." Jack murmurs, feeling more lucid now than he has in a while. He almost wishes that he wasn't, that he could lose himself in the empty push and pull of the tide over his mind. But Jack is wide awake and he intends to keep it that way for a little while, at least. Sandy gives him a half smile and lets the sand disperse into a cloud, not offering again. He does form shapes in the air though, a tooth and a question mark.

_Will you see Tooth again?_

"I don't think I can. I didn't...that scar..." Jack’s hands clench into tight fists as he evens out his breathing, refusing to be dragged down by Pitch's imaginary voice. _It's your fault, Jack._

"I didn't mean for that to happen. I don't know how to...how do I make amends for something like that?" 

"For starters, mate, you could let her know you haven’t keeled over just from the sight of her." Bunnymund interjects as he enters the room, looking far more relaxed now that the Easter rush has ended.

"Sorry." Jack says automatically, getting confused when Bunnymund flinches at the apology.

"No, _I'm_ sorry. No one blames you, Jack. That was all Pitch, he's the one at fault here. I just wish...I wish we had been more observant, you know? I wish we had figured things out sooner, like Tooth had." Bunnymund sounds remorseful and it shows in the way his usually proud stance is slumped. Jack winces and looks away

“I don’t really, um, I kind of don’t want to talk about this.” He mutters, and he catches Bunnymund’s pained expression from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to have this discussion.

“You don’t have to. But if and when you do, we’ll be here.”

For a moment the world goes pure white, memories of clouds and months of running away filling Jack’s head. He hears Tooth, feels phantom fingers laced with his own, and remembers that day so long ago.

_“You know we’ll always be here for you. **I’ll** always be here.”_

 

Jack blinks and he feels wetness in his eyes, caught in his eyelashes and freezing. His hands are shaking.

“I know.” He says. “I know you are.”

_That’s what I’m afraid of._

He excuses himself and goes to his room, sliding numbly beneath the quilts and tugging them over his head. He’s shaking, small tremors that travel like shockwaves through his extremities. He hears whispers at the door and catches small chirps.

“Tooth?” He calls out weakly. “I can hear you in the hall.”

He doesn’t turn towards her as he hears her enter the room. She doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t either. Tooth sits at the edge of the bed as he shudders beneath the quilt. He still refuses to look at her, can’t bring himself to look into her face and see the emotions playing across it. She’s so unbearably real here. He can’t stand the thought that he might see the hatred he’d always expected, although all of her actions have suggested the exact opposite of that.

She rests her hand next to the back of his head, not touching him, but the pressure against the pillow is enough to know that she’s there. He doesn’t stop shaking, he can’t stop even though he wants to. He keep imagining her face, the blood, the scars. There are things that will never be undone.

He doesn't know how long they stay there like that, neither of them speaking. Tooth isn't still, she can never stay still for long, but her hand stays where it is even as her wings flutter restlessly. He can feel her without touching her and she's so _alive_.

Slowly, he reaches out to take her hand. He still can't look at her, but he feels her fingers close around his own and that is enough.

She's warm, and for the first time in a long while he doesn't feel as though he's burning.


	9. Chapter 9

Tooth ends up staying beside Jack’s bed through the night, long after he has fallen asleep still clutching her hand. He wakes up the next morning to find her reading a book held aloft by a few fairies, her small hand still loosely twined with his own.

Jack isn’t been able to voice his gratitude but he squeezes Tooth’s hand, and the soft smile she gives him in return is enough to tell him that she understands all the same.

After that Jack begins to make more of an effort to initiate contact with the other Guardians. It’s still difficult, even though they all do their best to allow him to reach out first. North is the one that slips up the most, often resting a hand on Jack's shoulder or pulling him into a one armed hug. Bunnymund is, surprisingly, the easiest to deal with on the physical front. His fur is obviously different from skin and while Bunnymund is not the cuddliest of the Guardians, he does not object to Jack stroking his fur from time to time. Tooth had offered up her feathers, but Jack still has trouble looking at her without thinking of Pitch. But it’s getting easier. Everything is getting easier.

“We’re proud of you, Frost.” Bunnymund says one day, when they are sitting in Jack’s room and Jack is gently petting the soft fur of his ears. He feels like a little kid and the way Bunnymund gives him a brotherly punch to the shoulder only enforces that. He doesn’t mind it. The place that he thought was broken, his center, has started to mend. Sandy offers up the dreams from time to time but Jack is learning to work through the day instead of sleeping them away with memories of a time long past.

Jack feels like he can finally say that he's getting better. Certainly not healed or fixed, because there are nights when he sits curled up by the lamp, holding his breath as shadows play across the walls. But he doesn't hear Pitch and he hasn't broken any mirrors lately, and maybe one day soon he will be able to go outside without getting terrified the moment he opens the window. Jamie must miss him terribly. He should ask Baby Tooth to bring the poor kid a letter. It won't make up for Jack's absence, just a few months shy of a year spent away from Burgess, but it might be a good start.

_(He tries not to think about how Jamie may have stopped believing by now.)_

He’s in the middle of drafting that letter when someone knocks on the door, making him jump and scratch a thin line of ink off the paper and onto the table. Jack grumbles and licks his thumb before wiping the ink away, sighing with relief when it doesn’t stain.

“Come in.” He calls out. The door opens and North peers into the room, fully entering when Jack smiles up at him. He leaves the door ajar and moves away from it, leaving Jack with a clear escape route should he want to leave. The tension is Jack’s shoulders drains out of him, and he settles into his chair.

“I am just checking in.” North says, although he sound strangely nervous. Jack raises an eyebrow, feeling as though the roles have been reversed, and sets his pen aside to give North his undivided attention.

“This feels like a bit more than ‘checking in’.” He points out. North shuffles a bit where he stands near the bed, and eventually he heaves out a sigh and sits down.

“I am going to be frank with you, Jack. I want to know if you are...” North waves a hand, a vague gesture that Jack makes a confused face at while North searches for the right words, “ah, if you are in touch with reality.”

Jack feels his stomach lurch. “I don’t get what you mean.” His tongue feels like lead in his mouth and the words fall heavily from his lips. North doesn’t look pitying, but his eyes are sad in a way that speaks of regret and guilt.

“Are you dreaming, Jack? Or are you here? Do you know the difference?” North asks slowly. He watches Jack carefully, seeking out any sign of discomfort that might suggest that this conversation is happening too soon.

“Great question.” Jack laughs, but the sound is hollow to his own ears. It isn’t as though he hasn’t thought about it. It’s something that’s always at the back of his mind, a constant worry that maybe he will wake up somewhere he doesn’t want to be. He looks to the door, unobstructed and unguarded, then he returns his gaze to North.

“Jack?” North presses. Jack closes his eyes and exhales, looking for the answer. It comes easier than he expects, and he opens his eyes with a smile.

“You know, I think I’ve finally settled where I’m supposed to be. It’s good to be back here. You know, in the realm of reality and all that.” He and North exchange wide grins and North gets up to hug him, then remembers that Jack doesn’t like the contact and backs down. He turns to leave instead, and Jack shoots out of his chair to quickly embrace North’s shoulders.

“Thank you.” He whispers. North pats his hands and then Jack releases him to float back to his chair. They don’t mention the exchange to the others, but Tooth notes that Jack seems much happier.

His answer is a blinding grin and assurance that yes, he really is.

 

\--

 

“You are far too eager to forget me.” Pitch says from where he is hidden somewhere in the dark of the room. Jack feels the air leave his lungs in one painful gasp. It’s like there is a weight on his chest, holding him down, and when he struggles to look he can just barely make out the shapes of shadows looped over his body.

He tries to scream but his throat won’t cooperate. He can’t make a sound.

“You think you can just ignore me, Jack? You can’t see me, I can’t see you...that’s how how _children_ fight their battles, darling. You can’t run from me.” Pitch is whispering right next to his ear and he can feel the warmth breath stirring his hair but he can’t _move_. He is frozen to the bed, held down with shadows and fear and who knows what else. He can’t close his eyes, can’t shut Pitch out.

Where are the Guardians? He tries to scream again, feels his body ache with the desperate need to escape, but still he is immobile.

“No one will help you.” Pitch murmurs. “I tried to tell you, Jack, I told you that you don’t belong here. You’re mine. No matter where you go, no matter what you do, you will _never be rid of me_.”

Unseen hands smooth down his chest, suffocating him, pressing over his heart to feel the rapid beating. He feels like he is being pulled from the bed and he spasms in the grip of the shadows.

He isn’t certain how much time passes as he tries to struggle. Hours, minutes, mere seconds, it doesn’t matter. It seems like eternity. Pitch is silent but the hands and the shadows are still there, pushing and pulling and tearing. He can barely breathe. Cold tears sting the corners of his eyes but he cannot cry, for some reason the tears won’t fall. The ice holds his eyes closed, lashes stuck together.

He thinks he can feel his feet beginning to kick out but it’s hard to tell with the crushing weight that has spread across his body. The air builds up within him and he forces his mouth wide open. The scream is quiet but it builds as the pressure leaves his chest and then it is a piercing wail, painful even to his own ears.

There is the sound of a door slamming open followed by distressed voices but he can’t see them, can’t pry his eyes open even though his hands are free and he is clawing at his face.

“Bunny, get a warm cloth!” 

“Don’t grab his hands you’ll just scare him--”

“No, North, dream sand will just make it worse,”

Small hands rest over his own. They are warm, childlike, and he is overcome with the impression of his sister.

_”It’s alright Jack, we have you, you’re safe now.”_

He allows his hands to be pulled away. A warmth cloth dabs at his eyes, wiping away the ice that held them shut. His chest heaves as he’s finally gone quiet, aside from a few hiccuping sobs as the world comes back into focus. The lights are on and the Guardians are a wary distance from the bed, aside from Sandy who is holding the cloth that was used to clear the ice away.

“A dream?” He asks hoarsely. He doesn’t know if he’s referring to Pitch, or this very moment.

“You were having a night terror.” North says solemnly. He crosses the room to shut the window, and Bunnymund has his boomerangs out as though he is expecting Pitch to jump from beneath the bed. Tooth hovers uncertainly over Bunnymund’s shoulder, as if her very presence might spark a panic attack.

He may not have that suffocating pressure on his chest anymore, but he still finds it hard to breathe.

One step forward, six steps back.

"We're here." Tooth says, and he knows they are. He knows that they won't leave him, not after all of this.

"Don't go." He begs anyway, and his voice cracks. He regrets it immediately, feeling selfish and childish, but North calls out the door for the yeti to bring some more chairs.

None of them sleep that night. Dawn breaks and the light through the window is a relief, but not a sign of victory. Jack places a hand over the scar on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie blocking direct contact but doing nothing to hide the fact that it is there and may be there forever.

_No matter where you go, no matter what you do, you will never be rid of me._

It doesn’t matter if the Guardians are real, Jack realizes as he watches them dozing off in their chairs. It doesn’t matter if Pitch is locked in a cage underground. The damage has been done. He clenches his fist in the material of his shirt and grinds his teeth together, remembering the phantom hands of the night terror and the terrifying immobility. It was too much like those months spent alone, with only Pitch to give him some sick semblance of company.

“You won’t hurt me again.” Jack hisses to the space beneath the bed.

He receives no answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the final chapter. Hard to believe that all of this is finally over. I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who has been reading this, despite it being so very different from both Shiver and Tremble. I REALLY want to thank Lin for letting me work on this project with her.
> 
> Like seriously ahaha I'm a huge nerd but Tremble was an amazing opportunity for me and getting to continue with Debris was such an honor. I'm happy to finish this story after working on it for so long, but I'm also sad to close the project that brought me into contact with so many of you and gave me the chance to make what I hope will be long lasting friendships.
> 
> Thank you for sticking through it with me, everyone. I hope you enjoy this final chapter.

“Jack? Would you like some iced tea?” Toothiana hovers uncertainly by his side, balancing a tray with two glasses that smell minty and have ridiculous little christmas tree swizzle sticks poking out of them. Jack shakes his head and Toothiana sets the tray aside, picking up one glass for herself and stirring it absently.

“Baby Tooth delivered the letter to Jamie for you. She’ll go back tomorrow night to check for a response.” She says, settling in beside him. Jack hums in acknowledgement, trying not to let his nervousness show.

“Are you sure there’ll even be one?” He asks softly. Tooth bobs her head as she sips from her glass.

“Positive. Baby Tooth couldn’t stop talking about all the pictures Jamie has drawn of you. He’s quite good, she said. You’ll have to see for yourself one day.” Tooth beams at him and Jack can’t help but smile back, however strained it may be.

“Yeah. Someday.” They fall into comfortable silence, sitting at the windowsill and watching the icy peaks in the distance. Jack’s staff is leaning against the wall, just within reach, and he is tempted to grab it and just soar out the window into that bright blue sky. Tooth watches him from the corner of her eye, he can see the way her eyelashes flutter when she tries not to let him catch her looking. He’s too tired to be annoyed by her concern, and instead of calling her out on it he falls to the side and rests his head on her shoulder. 

Tooth freezes for a moment, looking down at him with an unreadable expression, and then a fond smile breaks out across her face and she wraps one thin arm around his shoulders. Jack can feel her quick pulse against his cheek, her heartbeat always so much faster than a human’s, and it’s like the beating of wings. It’s comforting, and he closes his eyes to listen to it. The wind rattles the windowpane, quietly asking to be let in, so Jack kicks out blindly to knock the window ajar. The wind immediately swirls around them, tugging and pulling.

Jack knows that the wind has no concept of emotions like fear. It just knows that Jack has been part of it for so long that his absence is confusing.

“Not today.” He murmurs to it, and it pulls almost sullenly at his sweatshirt before retreating. Toothiana shifts under his cheek and Jack blinks up at her.

“Have you considered getting used to it more slowly?” Tooth asks, and for a moment Jack has no idea what she’s talking about. But her eyes are trained on the white snow outside and he understands perfectly. His stomach twists at the thought of it, but he wants it back. He wants to go outside again.

“How would you suggest going about that? It’s not like there’s much of a step between an open window and being fully out of doors.” He sighs while dragging his hand down his face, pulling at his lower eyelids in an almost comical manner. Tooth quirks a faint smile at him.

“No, but you can control the environment you step out in. Why not the Warren?” Tooth sips her tea, gauging Jack's reaction to the idea. He frowns as he thinks, trying to wrap his mind around it.

“The Warren? Really?” He repeats, just to be sure. He doubts that Bunnymund would want him anywhere near all that delicate flora a second time, but then again, it's after Easter and there are no perishables out in the open that can't be replaced.

“Yeah. Bunny mentioned it a few weeks ago, actually. Pitch can’t get to the Warren, it’s totally protected. The only way in and out is through the tunnels, and of course the sky, but only if Bunny has you keyed into the Warren. Nothing else can get in.” Well that scratches out the idea that Bunnymund wouldn't want him in the Warren. Jack rubs the back of his neck, considering the Warren as a viable option now that he knows it’s available to him.

“So I can be outside, but not be...” He trails off, not really certain how to describe it. He picks at the hem of his sweatshirt, a new one that North had made for him a few weeks back, and Tooth gently covers his hands with one of her own to keep him from pulling out threads.

“And not be totally exposed to the world, yeah. It’s the most controlled environment you can possibly hope for. What do you say?” Tooth finishes his thought for him and gives him a hopeful little smile as she pulls her hand away.

“When can we start?” Jack grabs the forgotten second glass of iced tea from the table behind him and raises it up, grinning from ear to ear.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Tooth laughs, and she bumps shoulders with him before clinking their iced tea glasses together.

 

\--

 

As it turns out, it is not as easy as Jack had hoped it would be. The moment Bunnymund opens a tunnel Jack is hit so hard with a flashback that he falls over, retching half digested cookies all over the workshop’s floor. Memories of dark caverns and narrow corridors flood his mind and North has to talk him through it before Jack is calm again.

“Maybe we should try snowglobe.” North suggests. He is kneeling on the floor next to Jack and Bunny has closed the tunnel, looking guilty and uncomfortable.

“Tomorrow.” Tooth looks to Jack for confirmation, and he nods shakily before retreating back to his room.

Jack is a nervous ball of energy throughout the night, despite North’s reassurances that he will be fine. Bunny leaves for the Warren to ‘tidy up’, whatever that means, and Sandy heads out to make a much needed trip around the world. Morning comes far too soon, and when North opens the portal to the Warren Jack is the last to go through it.

He is immediately hit with the smell of freshly cut grass and a variety of flowers. He hadn’t realized that he had kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut until he opens them to see the Warren in all its glory. There is no sign of devastation, just mossy rocks and hundreds of plants. Jack can imagine Sophie’s laughter as she ran through here, just over a year ago.

It’s a bittersweet feeling, accompanied by guilt and shame, but Bunnymund smiles at him and holds out a paw.

“Come on, I’ve got something to show you.” Jack takes Bunnymund’s paw and walks along the grass, careful to keep his frost reined in. Tooth and North follow at a respectful distance, watching from afar as Jack reaches the top of a hill and realizes what Bunnymund has done for him.

“This is amazing!” Jack shouts over the wind, which has been whipping around him since he arrived. In the small valley below there is a huge snow pile, the edges of it melted into puddles but otherwise retaining its shape. “This is what you were doing last night?”

“That down there is the coldest part of the Warren, and I thought you might feel a bit more at home if you had some of your element nearby. It won’t last long, so I suggest you take advantage now.”

Jack throws himself at Bunnymund, hugging him tightly and whispering a tearful ‘thanks’ before rushing down the hillside into the snow. He hands with a soft thud and immediately curls his fingers into it. The heat has made it sticky, perfect for snowmen, but Jack packs it into a small ball and blows across it. It glows a familiar blue that makes him grin. When Tooth gets close enough, he launches his first snowball in months. It hits her square between the shoulders and she squawks in shock before rushing over to retaliate. North is quick to join in, dragging Bunnymund with him until the four of them are lobbing snowball after snowball at each other.

Their clothes end up soaked due to the Warren’s heat melting the snow that stuck to them, and once the snow pile has been sufficiently demolished Jack lays on his back in the grass. The sky above is a beautiful blue, only a few thin clouds drifting across it. He feels so incredibly small beneath it but that doesn’t scare him as much here in the Warren. The open sky combined with the gentle breeze and cold water soaking his hoodie have him remembering better days. The memories are good ones--Jamie begging for one last snow day, Sophie trying her hand at ice sculpting using a slushie from the fair, Baby Tooth accompanying him across the continents.

Pitch hasn’t marred these memories, Jack realizes. There are still plenty of beautiful things in the world that haven’t been touched by shadow.

He returns to the workshop to find that Baby Tooth has dropped off a letter from Jamie. The handwriting is still as messy as it was before although the spelling has gotten better, and Jack smiles as he pens his response to his first believer.

That night he sleeps easily, free from nightmares and worries.

 

\--

 

It’s the first time he’s been outside of the workshop since he had been brought there months before, not counting the trips to the enclosed space of the Warren. The sun is warm and the wind is cold, and the snow crunches beneath North’s boots. Jack cringes at the sight of shadows between the snow banks just outside the door, but he drifts over them anyway. Tooth’s expression is encouraging. She’s grinning so brightly that Jack wonders if she’s ever looked at her own teeth before, because that smile is amazing.

He’s not totally used to the wide open space of the North Pole, not yet. He drifts along the air currents, keeping a constant eye on either North or Tooth. Their presence is reassuring. Bunnymund and Sandy made the decision to hang back, with the promise that they would be watching out for any possible threats. Streams of dreamsand flow in gold ribbons across the sky, nearly disappearing from Jack’s view as he peers up into the midday sun. There are hardly any clouds in the sky, the reflections on the white tundra are bright enough to make a kid go snow blind, and Jack turns his back on the shadows under the workshop.

"How are you doing?" North asks from a few feet ahead. He had bounded into the snow like a child and Tooth had nearly been knocked out of the air when she couldn't move out the way quickly enough. Jack finds it funny that an old man like North could have such limitless energy, but it makes a lot of sense.

"I'm okay, I think." Jack says. He digs his toes into the hard snow of the arctic and concentrates on the little things. He'd learned at the Warren that by focusing on the way things feel, little by little, he won't be overwhelmed by everything else happening around him. It proves to be a useful trick now, with the rest of the world looming before him like some great beast. He's conquer that fear one day, but he knows to pick and choose his battles now.

"Just let us know if you are becoming uncomfortable." North gives him a sunny smile that doesn't fully mask the concern but Jack grins back anyway.

"Will do."

He edges carefully along one of the bigger snowdrifts, avoiding the deep blue darkness just behind the curve of it. His staff trails behind him and leaves long arcing pathways made of frost spirals. Out of curiosity Jack lifts his staff and blasts frost lightning into the air. It crackles and Tooth shouts in surprise when the bolts dissolve into glittering snow like fireworks.

He laughs. It’s loud and it echoes and for a moment he’s terrified by the sound of his own voice, but Tooth joins in and soon all three of them are laughing.

He loves it here, in this place of light and wonder.

This is his. The snow, the ice, the way the sunlight glints off the frost patterns he has traced onto the ground around them. All of this is his, it belongs to him and there is nothing that can take that away. For a moment he forgets how to breathe, amazed at everything before him. He feels so impossibly small compared to the rest of the world, but that doesn’t frighten him any longer. He isn’t alone.

Jack is exactly where he belongs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Deep below the earth, in an iron cage with solid bars and a thick lock on the door, Pitch Black dreams of white hair and laughter on the wind.

 

 

 


End file.
